Death becomes her. Her, of the absorbing eyes and the smile that puts you both at ease and on edge, without having it quirk too hard. It's when you know you're at the mercy of something you don't quite know everything about - knowing that you have not a handle on things, yet things have control over you that you cannot fathom.

Thoughts come poring out of dreams conceived years ago - about ideas and expressions dealing with love, lust and all of that rot. But when one puts things in perspective, there is nothing more or less than what one wants at any given point of time.

There is nothing that is absolute - everything seems so utterly relative. Things said to you by an inane history teacher begin to make sense at the border between sobriety and the artistic attempt at fervour you dig deep out of your soul because you believe you ought to.

I'd recommend Madhushala by Harivansh Rai Bachchan to anyone who is even vaguely interested in poetry. Tracts translated into Hindi from the original Persian, they are brilliant depictions of the feeling of a man caught in a daze or stupor.

"I have not the valour to move forward,
Nor the courage to go back from whence I came.
To which of my deeds and hopes should I turn?
And far, far way, there stands the source of intoxication."

Hm. It does sound terrible in English.

The Fisherman

He trailed his line into the water, watching the ripples make circles on the calm surface that distorted his image. He let his consciousness flow through his line into the water.

Into the world.

He saw smiles, tears, hopes, dreams, and reams of unpleasant feelings. Glimmers of love, tempered by vast tracts of need, selfishness and greed.

Yet, the Fisherman fishes. For the perfect feeling. For the perfect hope. For the perfect symbol of humanity, however jaded it might have become. He searches for true giving, and generosity.

It might never come, but who knows that goes through the mind of the fisherman? One who angles through all thoughts and dreams. In a land where he glides on the surface of our consciousness in the perennial early morning. In solitude. In a land where all you can see is your own reflection, but that is due to lack of perspective - you see not a reflection of yourself, but of what the world sees as you.

The entity has no conception of existentialism - it doesn't believe in anything, for it need not. It has no hunger for justification, no need to prove importance, no requirement of anything but the simple desire to fish in the waters it is in. To peruse. To discover. Something hidden from the depths, perhaps.